In primary school I wanted to shave my head and become a Buddhist
Because everything I do, love, touch gets wiped clean
Like my very fingertips
My words are sand in my dry throat:
Skin cells of some ancient stone-paintings sung from people’s lungs
Into and from generations of lips.
I’m trying not to swallow your kisses
And hoard them at the pit of me like an hourglass
But I don’t know how to love like a mantra;
I can’t spread my ribcage around an Aum,
And let all the sand from my lungs.
Let it all pass.
It feels too easy
To sit cross-legged in an attic
A guided mindfulness meditation playing
Over the rain thundering against the roof
And just breathe, to acknowledge and feel it
And nothing more.
Do you know what would be truer?
To charge out into that storm like a child
To kiss every rain-water fleshed body
Thrown from the sky
To let the cloud’s suicide hit into your open arms
And soak through your pours.
We are made like sieves
I don’t think that means
We have to let everything simply
Drain through us.
I want to hold what I can
So tell me these feelings are just weather:
I’m the sky.
I feel as blue in the face with loving
As the sky sometimes
(For all the clouds I couldn’t keep).
There are more stars up there
Than sand on all of our beaches.
Each breath feels like the death of a solar system,
Each time I turn a light-switch on my ears swell with the sound of ice melting
Each wrong word, missed phone call- a friend’s new scar, or trip to the hospital.
I am full of black holes.
Just because you get sucked into one
Does not mean I didn’t want to hold you
It just meant you resulted in too much blood/vomit swirled down a sink.
There are places in me where I can hold nothing.
I think this is why I distrust acceptance
Why I can’t open myself out like an Om
On a Yoga mat and reassemble the bones
Of my past into an explanation.
There’s not just me to lose,
I’m heavy with universes full of life forms
That don’t look up to the sky like I did
And see gravity dropping the stars
Like people off buildings.
How long do you think it took Atlas to figure out
The Earth didn’t need him to hold them up?
How drained and bruised did he let himself become
Lifted it from his shoulders
Let his great hands
Slip from its orbit?
How long did he have to sit and watch it
Hang on its own fragile strings of existence,
Before he convinced himself
He could walk away
And leave it to Entropy?